Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

He moves softly towards the emperor and bows deep. ‘Jahanpanah . . . Zohr bekheir, Jahanpanah.’ Mirza urges the emperor to accept the greetings from him, and wishes the emperor a good afternoon in Urdu and Farsi. He always addresses Emperor Shah Jahan as jahanpanah, meaning ‘the sanctuary of the world’, as the Iranis call their emperor.

  The emperor, who controls an army of five lakh men, painfully strains to see his most trusted Rajput mansabdar, and speaks slowly, ‘We need your help . . .’ The emperor gasps. Mirza does not remember his master ever asking for help—much less in such a pathetic manner.

  He keeps a stoic face. The emperor has given his utmost all his life. The entire ritual of ‘giving’ seems to take place before Mirza’s eyes at that very moment. As the diwan-e-khaas shimmers under the massive chandeliers, Muslim mansabdars wait to receive the title of khan, or very exclusive titles such as khan-e-khanan. The Hindu mansabdars wait, wondering whether their new title will be raja, rao or rai. The beaming emperor distributes khilats, the robes of honour, serpech, the ornaments that adorn the turban, rings engraved with titles, jewellery, hunting dogs, race horses, war elephants and even jagirs or mansabs as gifts. The receiver performs kurnish, bowing three times as he approaches the throne, bending down to the ground so that the back of his right hand touches the floor. The man gets up and touches his forehead with the back of his hand, as if offering his mind and body to the emperor.

  But now the emperor seems to be losing his mind and body. The grim-looking hakims have started discussing agitatedly. ‘Shhhhh,’ Dara Shikoh quietens the noisy medics and speaks to him, ‘We need all the help we can muster.’ Dara, who is in his early forties, looks younger than his age with his child-like skin and oval face. He is undoubtedly the most handsome among his brothers.

  ‘The shadow of war looms over us,’ the emperor whispers.

  The life of an emperor is such an illusion, like fireworks that dazzle in the sky for a brief moment and are as suddenly gone, Mirza muses.

  That brief moment has lasted for over three decades for Shah Jahan. The man lying on the bed, who controls eight thousand mansabdars and their two lakh horses, looks nothing like an emperor. His skin is covered with moles and is hanging listlessly under his chin, his usually henna-dyed hair still a vibrant red but greying at the roots. The king of Jaipur, Mirza has grown up under the care of the emperor. At a very young age, he had walked away from his kingdom to join the imperial army. For the past several years, the emperor had depended on him to head many wars of expansions—from Afghan in the north to Deccan in the south and from Kandahar in the west to Mungir in the east.

  ‘The emperor’s illness is supposed to be a state secret. Only these hakims and very few noblemen know about it. Even my sisters at Agra have no clue. But I am not so sure about my brothers,’ the first prince speaks gravely, his limpid, surma-smeared eyes boring into Mirza’s. A large, gold serpech fixed on Dara’s turban dazzles in the dim room.

  ‘It is time to be ready. What do you think?’

  In what world does Dara Shikoh live? Mirza wonders. The rich and elite of Agra have already started gossiping about the emperor’s illness. But the man before him is Dara Shikoh, the first prince, backed by undue privileges. Who can challenge Dara Shikoh, the ‘crown prince’?

  ‘What you say is true, my prince,’ Mirza murmurs.

  ‘We have consulted astrologers. My father is destined to live long,’ Dara Shikoh says with overt confidence, as if he desperately wants to believe in his own words. ‘But even the mere news of his illness will drive my brothers to the capital to claim the throne. Battles may rage around us.’ Dara comes straight to the point.

  Dara knows well that his family history is bleak. The sons of the emperor have only three choices—either to be the next emperor or to be murdered or to spend the rest of their lives being tortured in the dungeons. Humayun had two brothers. One was sent to Mecca where he mysteriously died and the other, who had dared to proclaim himself as the next emperor, was blinded. His eyeballs were wrenched out of their sockets and the empty holes filled with salt water. Humayun’s son Akbar mercifully had no brothers to kill or blind. But there was a cousin who had died in the notorious political prison of Gwalior Fort of opium overdose. Emperor Akbar’s sons had simply drunk themselves to death. Only Salim, alias Jahangir, had been lucky to survive his drunken orgies and opium bouts. His throne had been threatened by his own son Khusro, skilled in military training. Emperor Akbar doted on his grandson. After his father’s death, Jahangir had crushed his own son’s uprising, had blinded him and thrown him in the dungeons. And Mirza’s master, Shah Jahan, had no alternative but to kill or blind uncles, half-brothers, cousins and their sons till his empire was cleansed of all the men who could or would aspire for the throne. Some were forced to go into exile to Iran. Even the little son of the blind and imprisoned half-brother Khusro was slaughtered in his sleep. But if Mirza’s master had not done what he had, he would have been resting in his grave for thirty years now.

  ‘We have decided on a strategy to stop them from coming closer to the capital. It is time to don the armour, Mirza; you will go east to deal with Shuja,’ says the emperor softly.

  ‘Shuja bhai seems to know. The news is that he has planned his coronation ceremony, as the next emperor, in his constituency. I had to let father know this shameful news.’ Dara Shikoh’s words shock Mirza. He looks at the emperor. Shah Jahan’s eyes shine with tears. The second prince wants to declare himself the next emperor while the emperor is still alive. There is nothing more agonizing in the world than the realization that your son wishes you dead.

  ‘I will be ready, Jahanpanah,’ Mirza says, his face reflecting the pride in his heart. Dara Shikoh’s son, Suleiman, the emperor’s favourite grandson, is to take an assignment under him. This does justice to his status.

  However, Dara Shikoh knows how Mirza’s mind works. The truth is that Suleiman will go along with Mirza to keep an eye on him.

  The silence in the chamber is chilly. Suddenly it is interrupted by the emperor’s bout of cough. The medics take charge.

  ‘Even Murad has been acting strangely,’ says Dara Shikoh. Mirza is intrigued.

  ‘Who will deal with Prince Murad Baksh?’ he asks softly.

  ‘Murad is not a threat. The real peril is Aurangzeb. He has collected crores of rupees from Deccan sultanates and has not deposited them in the empire’s treasury, he has got huge funds from Bidar conquest to support his military,’ the emperor snaps, his head now resting comfortably on silky pillows. There is a fleeting shadow of pain in his eyes. His forth and youngest son, Murad, has grown up to be a foolish and a pleasure-seeking drunkard. In the battlefields, when the carnage rages around him, he lets himself drown in the delight of mindless slaughter. Such a man cannot have brains to plan his strategies. But the third prince, Aurangzeb, has the brains, cunning and wherewithal. His most dangerous weapon is his calm and practical mind that remains unfazed. But Aurangzeb hates Dara, and if he becomes the emperor, the first prince will surely be slaughtered. Shah Jahan’s stomach churns with anxiety and his mouth fills with bitter acid. He gulps it to curb another bout of cough. ‘One is anntar and the other a heyvoon!’ He calls Murad a baboon and Aurangzeb a beast.

  ‘Does Aurangzeb know about the illness?’ Mirza asks warily.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Dara Shikoh admits.

  ‘What has been planned to stop him?’ Mirza is curious.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Dara frowns, but avoids answering.

  Mirza ponders for a while. It is not an easy question and there cannot be a single solution. He feels uncertainty for the first time in many years. It is a new emotion for him. ‘To begin with, it will be advisable to call back the reinforcements.’

  ‘That’s done; Nasiri Khan, Rao Chatrasal, Mir Jumla, Kartalab Khan and others have been contacted directly. They will soon get our farmans and return along with their squadrons.’

  ‘Who goes to the south to stop him?’ Mirza asks cautiously.

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nbsp; Dara does not want to give away any name. He knows that the Rajputs are strong military men, each supported by thousands of their warrior clansmen. If he fails to handle the one who stands in front of him, he can never be the emperor. But there is also a weakness. These warriors from the sands of Rajasthan can turn insanely jealous of each other. Dara Shikoh has learnt to play one against another. And he will do so when and if the war of succession breaks out.

  ‘Is it Jaswant Singh Rathod?’ Mirza asks directly.

  ‘Maybe, but we have not yet decided,’ the emperor sounds truthful.

  Mirza stands quietly. Jaswant Singh, the king of Jodhpur, is hardly his son’s age, but in military ranks he stands higher. They have bestowed him with the title of Maharaja, meaning a great king, while his own title, Mirza, means ‘the son of a king’.

  ‘My last wish on this earth is that my first son, my Dara, becomes the emperor after I am gone,’ Shah Jahan whispers. The whole world knows it, and the emperor has made it clear over the years. But it is the first time Mirza actually hears it from his master’s lips. When strong men wish, their wish is a command. When weak men wish, their wish is a weak hope. But when strong men gone weak hang on to their old wishes, what happens? Mirza wonders and looks at his master. Shah Jahan, the king of the world, reminds him of a dying sparrow with a fractured wing.

  ‘Abba jaan, you are not going anywhere for a long time.’ Dara Shikoh cannot bear the thought of his father’s death. Future without father is too bleak.

  2

  The long-awaited monsoons have finally arrived at Bidar, offering relief from the oppressive summer. The walled city that stands on the highest point of the eastern Deccan plateau looms over a shallow valley with gently rolling hills. The slopes have turned brilliantly green. The fort at the eastern face of the city is protected by another high wall and a deep moat. Cut in solid rock, it is twenty-five guj in width. Palaces, mosques, Turkish baths, a mint, weapon stores, courtrooms and many other buildings fill the fort’s courtyard. The enormous gates, battlements and palaces are awash with rain and sparkle in the evening light. The open spaces between the red buildings are filled with lush green lawns and manicured flowering shrubs.

  The main courtyard has neat piles of red lateritic stones here and there. More than a thousand labourers on the scaffolds repair the bastions and the fortifications that have been damaged in the recent battle. It is still drizzling when Aurangzeb walks out of the sixteen-pillared mosque, his favourite place in the fort. However, his heart is thumping with rage. Within a month of his meeting with Dabir, Shivaji has raided the imperial territories. The first attack had been on Junnar. They had taken away more than ten thousand gold coins, countless sacks of jewels, clothing and two hundred priceless Arabian warhorses. Thereafter, Shivaji’s horsemen had spread in all directions, cutting off supplies and ransacking wealthy villages. The entire region had become unsafe for travellers. Merchants had stopped trading in the area. Many shopkeepers had fled. Even the city of Ahmednagar was not spared.

  When Aurangzeb faces the main entrance of the fort, he notices a few horsemen entering through the main gate. They are the men from Samarkand. He quickly turns to his left and rushes towards the palace apartments. Mutamad is holding an umbrella over his head. The eunuch starts running to keep up with his master. After crossing the many-arched corridor supported by enormously massive pillars, Aurangzeb steps into a foyer lit by countless tall brass lamps called shamdans and a chandelier.

  Kartalab Khan wonders about why he has been summoned from the battlefield. The Mughal army is trying to crush Bijapur. They have already taken over parts of the Adilshahi sultanate to the south and west of the capital. When he enters the foyer he finds his employer sitting on a throne made of ebony and gold. Aurangzeb is counting the beads of his rosary with half-closed eyes. Two guards armed with javelins stand behind him. It is rumoured that the third prince changes his personal guards every alternate day, sometimes every day. But that is not Kartalab’s business.

  ‘Our terrain has been disturbed by Shivaji and his bandits. I want you to join our other mansabdars, Nasiri and Iraj, to restore order.’ Aurangzeb narrows his eyes and continues, ‘Slaughter everyone, take captives and drag them to our camps. Teach Shivaji’s men a lesson. Make them writhe in such agony that they beg for death.’

  If he could, Aurangzeb would have loved to flog the Maratha by a whip made of raw hide, in public, till he would fall at his feet. Instead, a blade of fury cuts through his body. He shudders, as a feeling of violation shakes him. What they have taken is utterly insignificant in terms of money. It is a question of the universal perception of the invincibility of the imperial territories. It is about keeping the flames of fear burning strong. But Shivaji is showing them dangerous possibilities. The lambs of the Deccan may grow a carnassial and turn into tigers.

  Karlatab Khan nods rather vigorously. He has heard that Nasiri Khan was successful in driving away the Marathas from the imperial region. But it was also said that the heavy rains, more than the bravery of Nasiri, had made the Marathas retreat. In fact, it was rumoured the plan had been precisely that—to vanish just before the rains.

  ‘Prepare your men to march into the mountains,’ were Aurangzeb’s orders.

  Kartalab wonders how he would march into the hilly region in this season. He has heard that the continuous downpour has lashed the hills and valleys of the region. The hill forts illegally occupied by Shivaji have become more remote to the plains.

  ‘Have no mercy, ruin his jagir, burn his villages, kill, enslave, do what you please,’ says Aurangzeb. He wants his squadrons to go berserk with violence.

  Life is a djalyab, Kartalab Khan curses softly in Turkish, calling life a bitch. Aurangzeb does not hear his words. Just before he was to meet the third prince, people had warned Kartalab not to promise a monsoon invasion. They had told him that the rains in the western Deccan turn brutal. The rivers in the hilly region become so aggressive that villagers frequently spot elephants flowing downstream like mere twigs.

  ‘Yes, master,’ Kartalab Khan says and bows deep.

  The man from Samarkand hates to say yes to everything his master says, but he has no alternative. He is an Uzbek. The region beyond Afghanistan and Persia had lost its major source of income when the Europeans had opened up the sea routes. The trade between Hindustan, the Arab lands and Europe had thus moved away from the Silk Route passing through his region. Men from Uzbek, Tajik, Kazak, Turkmen and Kyrgyz ethnic groups had suddenly found themselves out of work. Kartalab had been lucky. Now, Aurangzeb has made him a mansabdar of two thousand horses, and may even offer him a jagir. Life has been comfortable, more so because he, like most from his region, is a Sunni and speaks Farsi. He is also tall, fair and has light eyes.

  ‘I will do all I can, even face death to fulfil the wishes of my imperial prince,’ Kartalab mutters, bowing more deeply than usual.

  4

  Afzal Khan has arrived from the north-eastern frontiers of the Adilshahi sultanate. He has ridden several hours to reach Bijapur after abandoning the battlefields littered with his dead soldiers—for a purpose. The imperial dogs have outnumbered his garrisons, and have slain and captured thousands. He and the Adilshahi’s other commanders have lost everything. The Mughal beasts have wrenched their arms, transport cattle, cannon, gunpowder, slave girls and horses. Villages after villages from Gulbarga, south of Bidar, to Kalyan, west of Bidar, have been razed to dust. The once-peaceful habitats dotted with red tiled roofs are now piles of rubble splattered with blood. Not even a trace of tillage has survived the imperial gallopers and their roving eyes. The northern strongholds of the kingdom like the fort city of Bidar have fallen. But that is not the reason Afzal has come all the way to Bijapur. He has come to the capital to remove a thorn from his career path.

  He stares at the wall surrounding Bijapur. It is massive and strong, ten to fifteen guj high and seven guj wide. It is fortified with continuous ramparts and ninety-six bastions, not counting ten more at the
gates. The ramparts are protected by battlemented curtain walls from the inside, and are designed for artillery and small arms. He smiles wearily, and kicks his stallion to a trot. Sayed Banda, his chief guard, is riding alongside him. Fifty armed guards follow their master silently.

  He chews a betel leaf as they move towards the Alipur gate guarded by two circular watchtowers. The enormous doors made of thick wooden beams, fastened together by iron clamps, strengthened by massive bars and bristling with long steel spikes, are quickly thrown open for him. The sentries kneel in his honour. Someone tells Afzal that the Badi Sahiba has been informed and wants to meet him.

  Entering Bijapur always makes the khan feel at home. His kohl-lined eyes wander to the eastern edge of the city where enormous timber scaffoldings rise as if to touch the sky. Tiny figures of labourers are seen hanging over them. They have been building a mausoleum for the past fifteen years. It has the largest dome in the entire world. A faint outline of a huge, dark-grey cupola is seen through the scaffolds. The structure is his master’s tomb. Afzal’s heart aches; he misses the dead king of the sultanate.

  ‘The world was a different place when Mohammed Adil Shah Sahib was alive,’ he says to Sayed in Deccan Urdu, his eyes distant, perhaps gazing at the past.

  Sayed nods. He knows his master loved the late king and is loyal to the Badi Sahiba. But there is a problem. The Badi Sahiba loves her son Ali more than anything in the world, despite him not being born of her womb. Even the old courtiers do not have a clue regarding the boy’s origin. Adoption of a child is not recognized by Islam, so Ali is not their real king. And Ali does not trust Afzal Khan the way his father did, adding insult to injury.

  They pass through markets, streets lined with elephant stables, temples and mosques. The shops are opening, getting ready for the morning business. When he was very young and very poor, Afzal loved to walk through these markets admiring the objects displayed on the shop windows. ‘They have no clue what’s happening at their borders!’ Afzal spits with disgust.